


Pilgrimage

by fairwinds09



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Forbidden Love, convents are the best place for clandestine love affairs, ever so slightly heretical, somewhat AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 13:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6118457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairwinds09/pseuds/fairwinds09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twice a year, every year, she makes a pilgrimage to the Abbaye de Mont Sainte Odile. Twice a year, she meets him there. It is her very own pilgrimage of grace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

Twice a year, every year, she makes a pilgrimage to the Abbaye de Mont Sainte Odile, high in the Vosges Mountains of Alsace. She takes the smallest possible retinue, only a few servants, two or three guardsmen at the most. She tells Louis that she is going to pray, to ask for clarity and guidance where the air itself is clear and cold and where she might be just a little closer to God (at least in physical proximity). She does not tell him that this pilgrimage is not for the reasons he thinks, not to beg God for another healthy prince for France, not even to prostrate herself before the gentle, tortured Christ hanging from the great crucifix and do penance for her sins and therefore the sins of the entire nation. This is a pilgrimage of an entirely different kind—a pilgrimage of grace, she thinks.

As she rides through the narrow, twisting mountain paths, the branches of the trees whipping past her face, the thrill of riding a little too fast, of being a little too daring pulls at her stomach. Never in her life has she felt so alive as she does riding towards this forbidden pleasure, knowing the danger and rushing into it anyway. That phrase, though, a pilgrimage of grace, dances around the corners of her memory. She cannot remember where she has heard it before, or what it means, although somehow it does not seem to be a pleasant memory.

Still deep in thought, she pulls up her horse as the trees break and she can the see the abbey gleaming in the late afternoon light, not far ahead of her. For a moment, she sits perfectly still at the edge of the forest, her thoughts scattering like motes of dust in the long slanting beams of light. She breathes in the sharp tang of pine needles, savoring the taste of anticipation on her tongue. In just a few short hours, she will be with him, be absorbed in him, and she can hardly bear the wait.

Behind her, she hears her entourage catching up to her, and, galvanized, she canters on ahead. She has no desire for the company of others just now. As the abbey gates loom closer, she raises her hand in salute to the nun in the guard tower and hears the slow creak of hinges moving. She is here, at last, and the tug in her belly becomes a low, steady hum of nervous energy.

“Your Majesty!” A familiar voice hails her, and she rides into the stone-flagged courtyard to be greeted by the Mother Abbess’s wide smile. Mother Eulalia de Jesús, formerly known as Maria Sophia, is an old friend, one of the few ties she still has to her childhood in Spain. The product of the ill-fated union of a French noblewoman and a very minor Spanish viscount, Maria Sophia was never destined to make a good match, and when she was packed off to serve the Church at the tender age of fifteen, she saw no point in protesting. She has since risen in the ranks of her sisters to become the leader of Mont Sainte Odile, a position she has enjoyed with distinction for the past ten years. Despite the differences in their stations, then and now, she has never forgotten her old playmate, the Infanta, and her face is open and beaming with pleasure as Anne rides in.

“ _Querida_ , it has been too long!” she exclaims in Spanish, and holds out her arms in welcome for the queen as she slides down from her horse.

“Ah,” Anne sighs as she falls into the embrace, “my dear friend, too long is correct. Do you know how many months it has been since I heard my native tongue? Louis hates it when I speak Spanish, you know, and my ladies won’t use it anymore.”

Maria Sophia twists her mouth. “Pffft, those women. They are useless, _inútil_. All powder and feathers and talk, no substance. But what of that little seamstress you brought with you last time, hmm? That one I like.”

The queen smiles as they link arms, almost like the little girls they once were, and walk towards the refectory.

“Constance?” she answers. “She is still with me, thank God. A more faithful friend I could not have found anywhere in Paris. But she has just married, and I thought it unfair to take her from her handsome husband so soon after the wedding.”

The mother abbess chuckles knowingly. “Did she marry the musketeer, then? The one who couldn’t keep his eyes off her the last time you were here? I almost had to tell him that he was not allowed to have such obviously lustful thoughts in a house of God.”

“They are deeply in love,” and Anne sighs a little. “It’s lovely, really, to watch them with each other. Lovely to see her happy, at last.”

They have stopped in the shadows of the cloisters that wrap around the walls of the abbey, and Maria Sophia turns to face her, worry clouding her eyes.

“And what of you, _naña_? Are you happy?”

Anne turns her head, trying to hide the sudden sting of tears at the endearment. It has been years since anyone has called her that old nickname, years since anyone has dared such an informality. Even her beloved Constance would never use such a term. For a moment, the nostalgia is so strong that she almost confesses everything to her old friend—the loneliness, the misery of a court that is still unfamiliar to her after almost ten years, the bleakness of her marriage, the mortal sin that even now is filling her with a dreadful joy. But she cannot, will not, put Maria Sophia in such danger. And so she manages a weak smile and answers as lightly as she can.

“Ah, it is what is, _¿verdad?_ ” Maria Sophia looks at her closely, head tilted to the side a little like an inquisitive bird, her eyes narrowed and piercing. After a moment, she shrugs one shoulder in an innately Spanish gesture and begins to move towards the main buildings.

“Come, my dear, I know you must be tired and hungry. The sisters will make sure that your room is ready, but for now, let us eat.” She chuckles dryly. “I cannot promise the sort of fare you have at court, but it is good food—nourishing to the body and the soul.”

Relieved that her friend has decided to drop the subject, at least for the moment, Anne moves along briskly.

“It will be delicious, I am sure of it,” she answers, and as they walk into the refectory, she realizes that she means it. The ride and the thrum of anticipation buzzing through her veins have given her a prodigious appetite, and the smell of soup and freshly baked bread makes her mouth water.

An hour later, with a good meal in her stomach and heavy eyes, she climbs the stairs to her bedroom, secluded in the tower at the highest edge of the abbey. Maria Sophia knows she loves this room best of all, this perch high above the rest of the world, where the mountains and countryside spread out before her like a blanket of green and she is alone with her thoughts. It is a place designed for solitude, for reflection, and, most importantly, for silence. God forgive her, she thinks, for using such a place for the purposes she is envisioning, but she cannot help it. He will be here soon, and the fever in her blood is threatening to overwhelm her.

There is a fire already crackling brightly in the little stone fireplace, and the room is warm and smells of the crisp tang of burning pine. She refuses to have a maid on this trip; she does not want anyone else having access to this refuge. Alone, she strips down to her shift, hangs up her dress and stomacher, and wraps herself in a blanket. Reveling in the silence, so rare in palace life, she curls up on the heavy stone windowsill and tucks her feet into the scratchy wool of the blanket. And so, gazing out across the peaks and valleys washed in moonlight, she waits.

~~~~~~~

She jerks awake with a start several hours later, wondering how long she has slept. The fire is banked now, the embers still glowing, and the valley below is still bright with moonlight. Not long, then. Then she hears something, so faint it barely reaches her ears, and she uncurls herself from the windowsill to listen. It is a barely discernible scratching, like that of a small animal or a bird, but it is not coming from the window. She can hear it on the other side of the room, behind the stone wall. He is here.

Fumbling in her haste, she stumbles to her feet and runs to the wall, fingers searching desperately for the hidden panel that releases the catch of the secret door. Years ago, when she first started coming here, Maria Sophia casually mentioned the fact that, when the abbey was originally constructed, the region suffered from considerable political turmoil—so much so that the sisters often feared for their lives as much as their gold plate and jeweled crucifixes. When Relindis of Bergen became abbess in 1140, the abbey was in the process of being rebuilt after a great fire had destroyed the church and part of the cloisters. Filled with an excess of caution, the good abbess ordered that the rebuilt abbey include a series of secret passageways and doors so that the nuns could hide from intruders long enough to flee under cover of darkness. Anne had thought little of the story at the time, but she has wondered since why Maria Sophia told her that story with such care. She wonders sometimes how much her friend knows, and how much she has chosen to ignore.

She does not need to wonder who is in the hidden staircase outside her tower room. There is only one man who knows where the entrance is, and that she will be waiting on the other side. As her fingers finally find the panel and press hard upon it, the stones in the wall part as if by magic and a door swings open, noiselessly. He is here.

For a moment they simply stand there, staring at each other, unable to move or speak. Then one of them makes a noise, a sort of choked cry, and they rush frantically towards each other, into a collision as much as an embrace. He holds her so tightly that she can hardly breathe, his face turned into her hair, and her arms are wound so firmly about his neck that she fears she might suffocate him. She doesn’t realize that she is shaking violently until he pulls back a little and whispers, “ _Mon Dieu_ , my love, what is wrong? You’re trembling all over.”

At the sound of his voice, she shakes still more, the nervous energy of the last few days washing over her. She has been waiting for this moment for so long, for the feel of his arms about her, and the reality of it leaves her lost for words, overwhelmed. She is powerless in the face of it.

But he has misinterpreted her shudders and strips off his heavy leather baldric, draping it around her shoulders, where it completely swallows her much smaller form.

“ _Cariña_ , you must be freezing, wrapped only in a blanket. Come here, let me warm you,” he murmurs, his big hands cupping her face, his eyes warm and worried. From any other man the words would have sounded suggestive, and she finds it ironic that Aramis, the great womanizer, manages to make them somehow tender…chivalrous, even.

She slips her arms around his waist and tucks her head into his chest, curling into the security of his embrace and the weight of the leather holding her firmly in place. He smells of pine needles and leather and a bit of horse, but she doesn’t mind. It’s the smell of a man of action, clean and sweet in her nose after the cloying perfumes of court. Something about it fills her with want, pent-up desire rising up in her and conquering her nerves. Smiling, she pushes herself up on tiptoe and begins to brush languid kisses against his neck, the stubble of chin and cheek; then she nips at his earlobe and laughs when she hears him gasp.

“There are better ways to warm me up,” she whispers seductively in his ear, and is rewarded when she feels his grip tighten and a tremor run through his muscles. She’s not the one shaking anymore, she realizes, and boldly she reaches down and takes his hand, lacing her fingers through his. “I have missed you for six long months, and I don’t want to wait anymore. Take me to bed, Aramis,” she orders, and watches the longing in his eyes change to pure want. “Now.”

“Your wish is my command, _mi reina_ ,” he murmurs, and seconds later she is swept off her feet and into his arms. She giggles, unable to help herself, and leans down from her perch to kiss him. The moment their lips meet, the mood changes, shifts from laughter to something far darker and more dangerous. She is reminded forcibly of that night in another abbey years ago as he tumbles her onto the bed, their legs tangled together, his mouth intent on hers. He kisses her like a dying man, she thinks, like a man who is starving for love, starving for her. It fills her with breathless wonder.

Their first time together after so long apart is frantic, as she knew it would be—hands tangled in hair, mouths quick and hot, clothes thrown carelessly from the bed, his sword leaning haphazard against the bedpost. His hands are too gentle, almost reverent, until she murmurs in his ear that she wants him, wants him now, cannot wait a moment longer. He actually growls, which causes a ridiculous tug of desire in her belly, and then they are coming together, moving together, in a dance as old as time itself. The sensations rise and swirl in a maelstrom of light and color, his body hard and coiled above her, and it is not long before she can no longer hold out against the ecstasy. Moments after she cries out in abandon he follows, and then there is nothing but harsh breathing and the occasional pop of a stray coal in the fireplace.

After a long while she stirs from her languor, curled up against his chest, and begins to lazily trace the faint pinkish lines that mark his chest and torso, even his muscled thighs. She has done this before, marking with her fingers the scars of battle, and every time she does she is filled with a mixture of admiration for his courage and terrible fear that the next wound will be the one that does not heal…that he will finally be taken from her. He lies still beneath her touch, watching her with hooded eyes, his lips curved under his moustache.

“What do you see in them, _mi corazón_?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through her.

She doesn’t lift her eyes from the ragged line beneath her fingertips, low on his abdomen.

“A brave man,” she answers at last. “A reckless man. Too reckless.”

His hand, warm and callused, covers hers, holds her fingers still.

“I am a musketeer,” he says simply. “It is my duty.”

She tries to smile at him, but knows that it is halfhearted. “I am always afraid for you,” she whispers, and lifts his hand to her lips, presses it to her cheek. “Every time you are sent on a mission, I pray for your safety. Always.”

His dark eyes are filled with love and a little wonder, as though he can’t quite believe her. “I am in your prayers?” he asks, voice hushed. She nods. “Ah, my love, that is more than I could hope for. To be in the prayers of my queen.”

She frowns. “I am not your queen. Not here.”

He sits up on one elbow, his free hand coming up to cup her cheek. Without thinking, she turns into his touch, craving it, unabashed.

“You will always be my queen,” he says solemnly. His gaze is steady, unflinching on her face, as if he is making a vow of fealty. “Even if you were born a farmer’s daughter and had never had a drop of noble blood in your veins, you would still be my queen.”

She chuckles a little, trying to hide the swell of emotion in her breast. “Can you really see me as a farmer’s daughter, Aramis?”

He smiles, the lines at the corners of his eyes fanning in a pattern that is now as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.

“Actually, I can. You’d be very fetching in your smock and linen apron—even if you can’t cook.”

She smacks his chest. “You were to never mention that again! You are wicked.” He is trying not to laugh, and she smacks him again as punishment. “Besides, aren’t farmer’s daughters supposed to know how to cook? Who would want such a useless girl?”

“I would,” he answers promptly, pulling her down to lie beside him once more. He learns back on his elbow, gazing down into her face while he strokes her hair, winding his fingers into her curls. “I would marry you solely for your beauty, and hire a dozen maids to cook for us.”

She sighs and smiles. “It sounds like heaven.”

He kisses her. “It would be.”

They sleep, curled around each other like bookends, warm and tender, until early morning light begins to snake across the sky. She wakes as he is dressing by her bedside, his face barely visible in the dimness.

“Must you go so soon?” she whispers, wanting to hold on to him just a little longer.

“I dare not be seen leaving the abbey,” he murmurs, but she can see that he is as loathe to leave as she is to let him. “But I will be back tonight, _mi cielo_. Will you be waiting for me?” She rises and goes to him, winding her arms around his waist and pressing her body to his. He hisses out a breath at the feel of her against him, barely clothed and wholly willing.

“Don’t tempt me,” he murmurs in her ear, his beard tickling her sensitive skin. “You are so lovely in the morning, _doucette_ , so soft and warm…” His hands rove over her skin, slide beneath her shift. “Ah, I don’t know how I can wait until tonight to touch you again.”

“So don’t wait,” she challenges him, eyes shining brightly with lust and delicious, delicious power. “Make love to me—very quickly.”

He is very quick indeed. As he lifts her effortlessly to straddle his waist, she thinks fuzzily that he moves like a well-trained soldier—each movement is precise and economical, his caresses swift and well-aimed. There is a delight to the intensity of his ardor, the expert knowledge of his hands and mouth, the insistent rhythm of his hips. As his hands roam her body, slide her shift over her shoulders to fall at her feet, she tips her head back in a delirium of delight. Even in her rapture, she can feel the chill of the morning air, puckering her skin with gooseflesh, and she hears him suck in a quick breath as he steps back and looks at her.

“What?” she whispers, embarrassed and a little afraid. Even after years of marriage, she is unused to a man staring so openly at her naked body. God knows Louis never cared to. She knows she is blushing, and suddenly she desperately wants to grab the bedsheets and cover herself.

His eyes are molten, burning her skin as they rake over her figure, and she can see his breath come faster, can see the slight tremor of his hand as he reaches out to glide hesitant fingers over her shoulder, her breast, the curve of her hip.

“Sweet Jesu, but you’re beautiful,” he whispers, and there is such awe, such reverence in his voice that her throat constricts. She has never been loved like this, ever. She didn’t even dream that love like this existed, that she could be desired with all of a man’s body and heart and soul. It bewilders her.

She closes her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to cry, and moves forward to take his face in her hands, savoring the prickle of his beard under her fingertips.

“I have never loved anyone as I love you,” she confesses, and watches the emotions ripple across his face. She has never known anyone with a heart as pure as his, or love as deep and true. “Come here,” she whispers, and draws him down to the bed with her, her quick fingers undoing his half-laced breeches and slipping beneath his braies.

It is different this morning, even with the knowledge that they must hurry. Last night was about need, desperate, grasping desire that knew no mercy and took no quarter. This morning is sweeter, slower, shimmering with a tenderness too deep for words. As she undresses him, touches his warm, scarred skin, makes him moan in an agony of delight, she knows that this is deeper than passion, more than lust or want. This is devotion—bodies twined together, mouths meeting hungrily, neither able to stop the rising tide of want that is perilously close to sweeping them under.

She has no idea how much time has passed (she never knows how much time she has spent in the circle of his arms), but it seems only moments before their desire peaks and they are gasping out their pleasure into the still morning air. She lies back on the bed, boneless and replete, while he begrudgingly puts back on his hastily discarded clothing and straps on the small arsenal he carries with him at all times. When he is finished, he steps over and pulls another blanket over her with such care that she wants to weep yet again.

“I will see you tonight, _amorcita_?” he asks, and she nods. He knows the answer. “Go back to sleep, Ana,” he whispers, brushing her cheek with the lightest of kisses. He smiles at her, insouciant and adored. “Dream of me.”

And then he is gone, and she sleeps more peacefully than she has in half a year, as the sunlight slips through the bars of her tower window. Her dreams are filled with light, the rush of wind through the pines…and dark tender eyes that fan at the corners, laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was inspired almost entirely by the utterly delightful convent scene between Anne and Aramis in 1x09. One convent love scene did not seem to be enough--after all, forbidden love is best expressed in semi-heretical sex within cloistered walls, particularly in 17th-century France. 
> 
> Two important notes: first, this fic goes AU after Season 1. I am retaining the birth of Anne and Aramis' child and the conflicting emotions attendant upon it. However, I am ignoring all of Rochefort's existence/storyline and only foreshadowing the accusations against Anne and Aramis at the end of Season 2. Essentially, this fic is in some happy form of limbo existing before the vast majority of Season 2. 
> 
> Second, most of the historical names/places in the fic are real. There actually is an Abbaye de Mont Sainte Odile (you can find more information about it at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mont_Sainte-Odile_Abbey, which is fairly well-researched for Wikipedia). However, it would have been quite impossible for the historical Anne of Austria to visit it, since it burned down in 1546 and was not rebuilt until 1661, ten years after her death. For the purposes of this fic, I am cheerfully ignoring historical fact in the interests of true, if forbidden, love. 
> 
> Finally, this is a work in progress, and while I will endeavor to update it periodically, I am making no promises. Spring tends to be a very hectic time. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!


	2. Breaking Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He rides onward, the guilt weighing heavy on his shoulders. He will pretend that all is well, until it is not. 
> 
> He does not know what else to do. 
> 
> (Otherwise known as "Aramis has an awkward morning-after conversation with the boys.")

Aramis slips out of the hidden door at the base of the tower, checking carefully for any sign of prying eyes. He sees nothing to give him alarm, and moments later he is picking his way down the steep path that leads back to the edge of the forest. The path itself is shielded from view by scrub, and he is forced to admire the foresight of the nuns who constructed this elaborate escape route, although he very much doubts they would have approved of its current use.

Within minutes he is past the tree break and mounting his horse, who has been waiting through the night, tethered to a tree. With any luck, he will be back at their camp within the hour. A twinge of apprehension twists in his gut, and he pushes it down ruthlessly. They all know the danger, and have accepted it—some with more grace than others. And if disapproving looks from Athos and grumbles from Porthos are his lot to bear, he will gladly take them in exchange for the past six hours. It is more than a fair trade.

Dawn is breaking over the tops of the trees as he rides away. From long years spent campaigning, telling time by the position of the sun and the stars, he guesses it is somewhere around half past seven. Plenty of time to make it back to camp before his comrades rise, then.

He almost makes it. A quarter of a mile from camp, he slows his horse from its brisk canter and walks it the rest of the way, trying to slip in quietly, draw no notice to himself. But when he nears the edge of the clearing, he sees that Athos is already awake, hunkered over the re-kindled fire. Aramis says nothing, merely dismounts and begins caring for his horse. After all, what is there to say?

It is a good ten minutes before Athos speaks, and when he does, it is in his usual flat monotone. “Were you seen?”

“No.” Aramis is equally clipped. They do not wish to speak of this, even if there is need. “We are still alone?”

“Completely. We kept sentry duty all night. There is but one trail to the abbey, and it was watched every hour.”

Aramis nods. Absolute secrecy is the only way that both he and Anne will survive, and his brothers-in-arms are the only guarantee of secrecy he can depend on.

Silence falls again. His horse unsaddled, combed, and put to feed, there is nothing else for him to do, nothing to keep his hands busy and his eyes averted. Feeling as if there is lead in his boots, he makes his way over to the fire and sits opposite Athos, not knowing what to say.

“Coffee?” Athos ventures, after another uncomfortably long pause.

“Thank you.” He accepts gladly. He cannot imagine how this is possible, how a man who is known for his taciturn nature can somehow manage to now make silence so heavy, fraught with meaning. It is a gift, truly, this ability to press on a man’s lungs, his heart, with the simple weight of words unsaid.

Finally, he can take it no longer. “Athos, I—” he begins, meaning to somehow relieve the terrible tension that has overtaken them, and then before he can continue, there is a great roar of a yawn, and Porthos steps out of the tent a few feet away. Bleary-eyed, he stretches mightily, arms thrust toward the sky, and rubs roughly at his face.

“Ah, you’re ’ere!” he rasps, the early hour lending an even deeper timbre to his gruff voice. “Anyone see you leave?”

“They did not,” Athos interjects, his voice icy. He does not look in Aramis’ direction.

Porthos nods and sniffs the air experimentally. “Did you make coffee?” he enquires, and when Athos nods and hands him a tin cup of the steaming brew, his face splits in a broad grin. “ ’Ere’s a reason you’re my favourite of all the musketeers.”

“Your favourite?” Athos raises an eyebrow. “I thought that was D’Artagnan. Only last week you told him you were in his debt forever because his wife patched up the hole in your new doublet.”

“I’m allowed to change m’mind, aren’t I?”

“You are not. A gentleman—”

But their tiff is cut short as D’Artagnan clambers out of the tent, blinking at the rays of light that had begin to cut across the small clearing.

“How are you all up so early?” he mutters. “It’s barely sunrise.”

Porthos guffaws. “The young pup has gotten soft! A week of honeymooning with his sweetheart and he’s sleeping till noon. Have you forgotten what it is to be a king’s musketeer already, boy?”

Their young Gascon flushes and slouches over to the fire to fill his own mug of coffee, shooting glares at Porthos all the while. For a moment, all four of them are quiet, sipping the hot brew as the forest grows alive with movement and sound. Soon, though, Athos breaks the peace.

“We have work to do this morning, and we had best to breakfast and away,” he says matter-of-factly. “Whose turn is it to cook?”

“It is mine,” Aramis anwers, feeling every word coming out of his mouth wrongly, although he is not sure how. “Porthos, you have the supplies?”

“I do,” his friend rumbles. “D’Artagnan, go and fetch water, will you?”

D’Artagnan, still groggy, grabs a small tin pail and wanders off in the direction of the nearby stream. Athos stands also. “I will ensure that the horses are ready to ride,” he says to no one in particular, and goes to the other side of the clearing.

“This is an awkward start to the morning,” Porthos mutters as Aramis begins ordering the supplies in his preferred method, arranging hardtack, salt, smoked sausage, and dried apples in neat piles.

“I know,” he mumbles, drawing a sharp knife from his belt and slicing ingredients methodically. “I know. And it is my fault. I am well aware of it.”

Porthos shrugs and begins tossing bits of chopped sausage into the deep iron skillet beside him.

“We chose to come with you,” he points out. “It wasn’t like you ’ad to force us.”

Aramis stabs a dried apple viciously. “You and D’Artagnan, perhaps. But not Athos.”

His friend eyes the chopping process with some apprehension. “Athos is afraid of what might ’appen,” he says, edging away slightly as bits of shredded apple begin to fly onto his tunic. “We all are. But whereas I figure that a man ’as to do what he must do, and D’Artagnan thinks you could do no wrong were you to sleep with ’alf the nobility of Europe, Athos…”

“…Athos thinks me foolish and criminally irresponsible. I’m aware.” The apple is now savaged into a heap of rough fragments, which Porthos gently slides away and deposits into the pot.

“He does not.” The big, calloused hands begin to break the hardtack into small pieces. “Athos is much better with a sword than ’is tongue, as we both know. He would gladly die before he let you or the queen come to any ’arm, and he sees nothing but pain and destruction for you at the end of this road. He does not know ’ow to stop it, but he cannot forsake you when he sees that you need him—us—most. And so he says nothing because there is nothing for ’im to say.”

Halfway through this speech Aramis has dropped the remaining apples and his knife and has begun to stare, open-mouthed. At its conclusion, he picks up his knife, lays it down again, picks it up, and shakes his head.

“ _Mon Dieu_ , Porthos, that’s quite a speech,” he manages after a moment. “How long have you been pondering this, exactly?”

Porthos grins at him. “ ’ow many hours is it from Paris to here?”

It is the first time since he left Anne’s side that Aramis has felt like laughing. “You are good medicine, my brother,” he says, chuckling as he returns to his task. “I can only imagine how strange a journey this must be for you, all of you, and I would beg your pardon if I could—”

“But you cannot,” Porthos finishes for him. “I know. I have never ’ad the misfortune of falling for someone so far above me, but I can see what it does to you to be without her. And I see the difference in you these brief days when you are with her.”

Aramis cannot hide his smile. He feels foolish, ridiculous, talking about all of this like two girls giggling over their needlework, but at the same time a weight has lifted from his chest. He has shared everything of his life that matters with these men, more than he cares to remember or imagine, and this is no exception. Perhaps it should be, but it is not.

“I love her,” he says simply, and Porthos nods as he tosses the rest of the hardtack into the skillet.

“I know,” and he claps one enormous hand on Aramis’ shoulder, the weight and warmth indescribably comforting. “Now. Where is that damned Gascon with our water?”

The rest of breakfast is quiet as before, but Aramis feels the tension lessen. Athos still maintains his silence, albeit less coldly; Porthos and D’Artagnan eat quickly and volunteer to clean up the camp, leaving Aramis to change his gear in the privacy of the tent. He is debating whether it is worth his while to put on his one clean shirt when he hears a rustle behind him.

Athos is leaning at the tent entrance, his very stillness disquieting. Aramis has known him long enough to read him, at least a little. At the moment, Athos is profoundly uncomfortable, which does not bode well.

“I do not see a good end to this,” he says abruptly, the sound of his voice so unexpected that Aramis almost embarrasses himself with a start. He does not, however, reply. It is best to let Athos get it all out at once.

“I thought you were mad two years ago, at a different convent. I still think you’re mad.” He pauses, and Aramis waits. He is not nearly stupid enough to think that Athos is finished.

“One way or another, you will be found out. I do not know how or when. But it will happen, and when it does, the resulting cataclysm will break over all our heads…not just yours and hers.” He pauses again, and Aramis discovers that an enormous lump has formed in his throat, a thick knot of guilt and misery that makes it hard to breathe.

Athos looks away, jaw tensing visibly. Finally, he seems to come a decision. He clears his throat harshly. “Nevertheless—I would be not be…elsewhere. I will stand with you in this, as in everything, and when the time comes…”

He does not finish. He does not need to. They have always known they will die for each other, somehow, someday. It simply _is_.

Aramis nods, desperate for this moment to be over, desperate to go back to how they always are, how they are supposed to be. This fissure between them pains him to his very soul, but he cannot think how to put it right. There is no way to put it right. But at least he knows that Athos will not desert him. That is something.

“I am—I will—” For once his glib tongue fails him. Athos looks at him, grey eyes piercing, and Aramis sees his moustache twitch.

“You are. And you will. And Aramis—for Christ’s sake, stop playing Atlas,” Athos advises him, drily, and his eyes crinkle a little at the corners. “That happens to be my rôle.”

For the second time that morning, Aramis chuckles in relief, and as Athos turns away and he finally decides against the clean shirt, he finds his heart a little lighter. He cannot in good conscience expect his brothers-in-arms to agree with his folly, and folly it certainly is. It has already damned him, he is sure of it. It very well may damn them as well. But even so, they will stand with him to the death, solid and sure. He knows it, as surely as he knows he loves the woman he left this morning, as surely as he knows the weight of his sword in his hand and its scabbard by his side—deep in his blood, his bones, his soul.

And so as they ride out to the errands they must carry out for Treville, to maintain the cover that this is merely an ordinary mission, he falls easily into the old patterns of banter and ribaldry, so easily that he almost forgets why they are here and what awaits him that night. It is simpler to pretend, for the moment, that this is just another day in their company, that he is not risking all their lives for the sake of a woman he should never have touched. To pretend that he has not exposed them to treason and death.

He rides onward, the guilt weighing heavy on his shoulders. He will pretend that all is well, until it is not.

He does not know what else to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I couldn't see a way around involving the other three musketeers (not that I can imagine anyone wanting to leave them out), and they add such a delicious layer of complexity to this little fic. One of the abiding themes of Annamis is how Aramis' brothers-in-arms react to his incredibly foolhardy decisions, and this is my stab at that trope. Obviously he's feeling a good deal of guilt over putting them at risk, yet that guilt isn't enough for him to stop seeing Anne. So much delightful angst to exploit, so little time. 
> 
> In other news, a small note about the breakfast scene (unless you really like early modern historical details, you can stop reading now): I am approximating to the best of my ability the sort of victuals/food preparation that an early modern French soldier would have been accustomed to, but I cannot promise historical accuracy. Although it would no doubt be fun to embark on a full-scale research project of the subject, one really has to draw the line somewhere.
> 
> For those who are interested (few though you may be), hardtack was introduced to the Royal British Navy before 1588, so it is possible that a French soldier might have had it in his rations as well. Smoked meats were often used in the early modern diet. (I have no evidence whatsoever for the dried apples.) And if you have made it all the way through this footnote about early modern food customs, you deserve your very own personal version of Santiago Cabrera. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired almost entirely by the utterly delightful convent scene between Anne and Aramis in 1x09. One convent love scene did not seem to be enough--after all, forbidden love is best expressed in semi-heretical sex within cloistered walls, particularly in 17th-century France. 
> 
> Two important notes: first, this fic goes AU after Season 1. I am retaining the birth of Anne and Aramis' child and the conflicting emotions attendant upon it. However, I am ignoring all of Rochefort's existence/storyline and only foreshadowing the accusations against Anne and Aramis at the end of Season 2. Essentially, this fic is in some happy form of limbo existing before the vast majority of Season 2. 
> 
> Second, most of the historical names/places in the fic are real. There actually is an Abbaye de Mont Sainte Odile (you can find more information about it at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mont_Sainte-Odile_Abbey, which is fairly well-researched for Wikipedia). However, it would have been quite impossible for the historical Anne of Austria to visit it, since it burned down in 1546 and was not rebuilt until 1661, ten years after her death. For the purposes of this fic, I am cheerfully ignoring historical fact in the interests of true, if forbidden, love. 
> 
> Finally, this is a work in progress, and while I will endeavor to update it periodically, I am making no promises. Spring tends to be a very hectic time. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!


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